


We Need To Talk

by Zita



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Best Friends Who Don't Talk (TM), M/M, Not openly shippy but it's definitely what this is about, old and short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 04:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16033106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zita/pseuds/Zita
Summary: Grif and Simmons don't have a conversation about the ice field fight. Kind of.





	We Need To Talk

“You could’ve been dead.”

“Yeah,” Grif said. “But really? That’s been true a _lot_ of times out here, Simmons. Almost being dead is just one of those things we do now.” He put more confidence into it than he really felt. Honestly, he would’ve been totally fine not thinking about hanging from the edge of that cliff ever again.

“Oh come on, you can’t pretend it wasn’t a big deal and you didn’t freak out,” Simmons reminded.

“I did. Freaking out while almost dying is _another_ of the things we’ve done a lot of lately. What’s the point?”

Simmons sighed. “I’m just saying. You could’ve been dead.”

Grif, who’d been looking out aimlessly into the valley until then, turned his head. Simmons was facing him square on, serious. Grif felt himself tense, just a little, and hesitated.

“Right,” he said finally. “And _you_ would have to pick up the shitty watch shifts. You’re welcome for me not being dead, Simmons. Glad your life’s so much more convenient that way.” Grif brushed it off like he always did. Haha. Hopefully Simmons would let it go and they could move on for another day of Not Talking About It.

They weren’t good friends, Grif supposed. They fought, sold one another out, and twisted knives only people who’d lived too closely for too long could twist. But they _were_ friends, and friends did not let friends Try To Talk About It. This was his end of the bargain, and Simmons in turn would change the subject if Grif ever got dumb enough to break the No Talking About It rule himself.

This time, though, Simmons didn’t drop it.

“This isn’t about that and you know it.”

Fucking hell. “ _Simmons.”_ It was half warning, half plea. _Don’t do this to me, Simmons_.

“We need to talk, Grif.”

Grif shook his head, taking a step back. “No. Maybe you _want_ to talk, but I don’t need to talk about anything. I don’t talk about stuff. I’m _fine_. Your problems are yours, buddy.” He started to walk.

“So that’s it?”

Grif stopped, debating on just throwing himself into one of the man cannons. It would’ve solved this. It also probably would’ve broken some of his ribs. He set one foot on the edge just to keep the option open, in case the broken ribs started to sound better than... whatever the hell they were doing.

“Dude,” he said, “You didn’t even want to look over the edge. What do _you_ give a shit about me almost dying?”

It _had_ bothered him, and though Grif firmly believed in Not Talking About It, maybe Simmons had noticed. Maybe he really had been snippier than usual. ...Which meant he had brought this on himself. Shit.

Simmons sighed. He looked at a spot a foot to Grif’s left. Well, maybe just at the cannon. Grif guessed his fallback plan might be kind of obvious.

“If I looked over the cliff and you _weren’t_ there, that would’ve been _it_ , Grif.”

Grif didn’t do sincerity, or feelings, or talking sincerely about feelings. He wasn’t good at any of that. Simmons _knew_ that, which was why they had a _system. Damn him._

“Are you trying to tell me you’d miss me or what?”

Simmons made a frustrated noise. “Yes. Yes I am. You _idiot.”_

Grif relaxed a little. “You could’ve just said that, holy shit. Thanks. I know I’m pretty great-”

“ _Grif_.”

How was he supposed to respond to this? More importantly, how was he supposed to respond to this _besides_ _flinging himself away from here, screaming?_

_“Simmons.”_

It was the best he could do.

“You know what I’m talking about, you’re not that stupid!”

“Oh gee, _thanks_ Simmons, I’m glad to hear that not only would it inconvenience you if I died, but I’m not _that_ stupid!”

“That’s not what I meant! And stop trying to change the subject!”

“We don’t have a subject! You just keep _saying stuff!_ ”

“You already know what I’m trying to talk to you about!”

“Do I?!” He did. Pretending not to had always worked, and as it increasingly wasn’t he didn’t know where else to go.

“What are you guys _yelling_ about?”

A pink helmeted head peered at them from inside the base. The two froze, united for a moment in pure terror.

“Nothing!”

“The Blues!” They both answered at once. Donut’s face couldn’t be seen, but the sleepy squinting was almost palpable anyway as he looked from Grif to Simmons then back to Grif again.

“….It didn’t _sound_ like the Blues,” he said.

“It was definitely the Blues,” Simmons insisted.

Donut was starting to wake up, though. “….Are you _suuuuuure?_ ”

Fuck.

“That’s it, I’m done!” Grif threw his arms in the air and spun on one heel. “Bye!”

“Grif, wait!”

But Grif was already halfway across the valley, regretting all his life choices.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago and recently found it gathering dust on my drive. I thought some other people might like to see it, so here you go.


End file.
